Detox
by cornergoddess
Summary: My take on season 1,episode 11: detox. house!whump, house/wilson friendship, house/cuddy friendship. Check out my other House fics; 'recovery' and 'before'. Any criticism or praise is welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm baaaaack. Not that I was gone...I feel like I'm the only House writer still on here. Anyways, this will be a shorter fic with longer chapters. It's not my favorite thing I've written (I know; rousing endorsement) but I figured I should post it anyways because maybe you all will like it more than I do. Please let me know what you think and if I can do anything to improve! Also I am still in the market for a beta.**

**ALSO: if you guess the disease before they do, I'll give you an internet brownie!**

"It's not sarcoidosis. Lymph nodes weren't swollen. White count wasn't up. What else?" House was twirling his cane by the whiteboard, thinking. His patient was a 10-year-old girl who came in with leg swelling and trouble breathing. They had scanned her lungs and had seen accumulation of fluid. The whiteboard read,

LEG SWELLING  
DYSPNEA  
PLEURAL EFFUSION

"Congestive heart failure?" Chase suggested.

"Maybe. If you have some kind of time machine that can age her forward 50 years. But then I'd be dead. Which would be OK with me because then I wouldn't have to listen to your bad ideas! Now go test her for...something, I don't care."

The team left reluctantly, and House stood and went to his desk, opening the drawer and popping three pills into his mouth. It was more than he normally took, but his leg hadn't been taking kindly to the rain. More than once this week, he had woken up in a cold sweat with his leg cramping and he had to drag himself to the bathroom, whimpering and hoping his neighbors didn't hear him.

He looked into the bottle and realized he was out. He stood slowly and limped more heavily than usual to the pharmacy. The girl at the counter was short, and looked like she could be about twelve. Good.

"Thirty-six Vicodin."

The woman smiled sweetly. "May I see your prescription?"

House pulled out an old prescription with 'Dr. James Wilson' written on top. The date was wrong, but he was banking on the twelve-year-old at the desk not noticing.

Unfortunately, he was wrong. The woman studied the prescription. She was clearly new to the job as House had never seen her before, and she was actually taking it seriously.

"This is expired," she said.

"No it's not. That's a seven."

"It's a one."

"It's a seven."

"House," a woman's voice cut in. House turned around.

"I'm sorry about him, Angela," Cuddy apologized to the pharmacist. Then she turned to House.

"What's the problem now?" she asked.

"This idiot doesn't know how to fill a prescription," House complained.

"She just doesn't know how to fill an _expired _prescription. It's her job. She's doing it well," Cuddy praised, and the pharmacist beamed with pride.

"Fine. Then write me a script."

"No."

House feigned surprise. "What? You? Not giving me medication? What a surprise. Call Wilson then."

"I told him not to write for you either. You're addicted, House. You've been taking more the past few months. I'm worried about your liver. And your patients."

"You told him not to write for me?" House said in disbelief.

"Yes. Until you're due for another bottle. Which isn't until...next week."

"Next week?!" House exclaimed.

"Yes, next week."

"Fine, I'll just get someone else to prescribe for me. Chase would do it."

Cuddy sighed. "You're just proving my point, House. How about this: if you can go a week without your meds, I'll admit you're not addicted."

"I don't care if you think I'm addicted or not."

"Fine. Then a week off clinic duty."

"A month," House argued.

"Three weeks. And I'll say you were right and I was wrong."

House sighed. He weighed his options. On the one hand, he was tired of doing hours in the clinic every day, having to deal with the runny noses and crotch rot that came through the hospital. On the other hand, his leg really hurt. He knew Cuddy thought he took the pills to get some sort of high, but that was only partially the case. Nothing else would touch the searing pain in his thigh; not Advil, not Tylenol, and certainly not Motrin. He was not addicted. He needed to prove that. He knew it would suck and that he'd have to hide the fact that he was in pain, but he wouldn't let Cuddy get the last word.

"Fine."

He stomped to Wilson's office, limping more than usual. If he could just get one more dose before he went cold turkey…

He opened the door without knocking.

"House, what a pleasant surprise!" Wilson said sarcastically.

"Yeah yeah. Why'd you let Cuddy manipulate you?"

"I...didn't? What are you talking about?" Wilson noticed House's death grip on his cane, but didn't want to say anything lest he get berated for it.

"Why don't you sit?" he suggested instead. House sat on the couch in Wilson's office usually reserved for crying patients.

"You let Cuddy manipulate you into not writing for me."

"No I didn't. I'm worried about you too, House. You're popping those pills like candy."

"I'm in pain!" he yelled.

"I know. You're not in so much pain that you need enough Vicodin for a horse though."

"How do you know?"

Wilson gave him a penetrating look. He knew House was in pain, but addiction had pierced the surface. "Look, Cuddy already told me about your deal. Do you want me to stay with you this week?"

"No."

Wilson shrugged. "Okay. Well you know where I'll be if you need me."

"The strip club?"

Wilson sighed. "I have a patient. Would you get out?"

House sighed and stood, shifting his weight onto his left side and adjusting his cane. He opened the door and left.

His team was back in the case room when he entered. He hoped they wouldn't notice his pronounced limp.

"Her legs are like sausages," Foreman informed him.

"And what are you going to do about it?" House asked, tapping his cane on the floor.

"We need to drain the fluid," Cameron suggested.

"I meant what are you going to do about diagnosing her?" House said, frustrated. He ran a hand over his already slightly sweating forehead.

"We could test the fluid?" Chase suggested.

"Fine, do that," House ordered. His team skittered out.

He woke up in the middle of the night as he had so many nights before. But this time was different. He was cold and hot at the same time, and nausea wormed his way into his stomach and up his esophagus. He tried to get to the bathroom, but his leg wouldn't let him, so he grabbed the nearest trash can and retched. Not much came up as he hadn't had dinner. He tried to go back to sleep; tried to shut out the cramping in his leg by rubbing it rhythmically.

That morning, House's team sat staring at the whiteboard. There was no House in sight.

"How long should we wait for him?" Foreman asked.

"He's only thirty minutes late," Chase said.

"He was late yesterday too," Cameron remembered.

"I'll go see if Dr. Wilson knows where he is," Chase offered.

"He'll be mad at you for ratting him out…" Foreman warned.

"Whatever. We need to get to work and we can't do that if he's not here." Chase argued, getting up and walking to Wilson's office. He knocked.

"Come in!" Wilson yelled through the door. Chase entered.

"Oh no. What did he do now?" Wilson asked.

"He's late," Chase told him.

"He's always late," Wilson pointed out.

"I know. But we have a patient and we can't really do anything without him signing off…"

Wilson sighed. "Okay. I can call him." He shooed the Australian out of the room and dialed House. No answer. He left a voicemail.

"House, you're late. Your team can't work. Hurry up." He hung up and continued his paperwork.

Fifteen more minutes and no sign of House, and Wilson was starting to get worried. He was late all the time, but usually not this late. He stood and started to search the hospital.

Eventually, he had to go to the bathroom. He had drunk too much water this morning with his morning run, and his bladder was screaming for relief.

Standing at the urinal, he heard an odd sound coming from one of the stalls. He looked at the crack at the bottom and saw the bottoms of House's blue tennis shoes sticking out.

"House?"

The sound returned. It was like a broken garbage disposal.

"House? You OK in there?"

House retched again. He had been vomiting since last night on and off. He eventually made his way to work after puking up his breakfast, but the second he got to work the nausea returned with a vengeance. He rubbed his sore, stiff leg and wished he had his pills. But he couldn't take them, because then Cuddy would be right. He couldn't let that happen; she'd talk about it for years.

"Fine! Bad Reuben!" House answered.

"Are you detoxing?" Wilson asked, concerned.

"What do you think?"

"Can I come in?"

"I can't get up so no."

"Okay, well now I'm coming in." Wilson opened the door to see House leaning over the toilet, his face drawn in pain, pale with bags under his eyes. Wilson squatted next to him.

"Anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"Don't tell Cuddy," House said, and retched again. Wilson noticed the bags under his eyes and ascertained that he hadn't got much sleep last night.

"I won't. Your team's waiting for you. Do you need help getting up?" House nodded reluctantly. Wilson held out his hand and hoisted House up. He could hear his friend wince and Wilson almost winced too. House was usually good at hiding his pain, but his defenses had weakened a little today. He was grimacing and leaning on the stall for support. Wilson picked up his cane and handed it to him.

"Are you sure you should be working?" Wilson asked. House nodded. Work was probably the best thing to distract him right now.

"Okay. Well come get me if it gets really bad, OK? Just because I'm concerned about your amount of use doesn't mean I don't care if you're hurting," Wilson said, studying House's pained expression. The diagnostician limped to his office slowly. Every time he put weight on his bad leg, it protested, and he was afraid he'd fall in front of the whole hospital. He finally collapsed in his wheely chair next to the whiteboard.

"Hey, House," Chase greeted him. House grunted, rubbing his leg.

"House...you OK?" Cameron asked, staring unabashedly at his hand rubbing his leg hard.

"I'm fine. Thanks for your concern," House snapped. "What's new with the case?"

"Well, we tested the fluid in her legs while you were gone and there weren't any abnormalities," Foreman filled him in.

House nodded. "That was a stupid thing to do. She doesn't have an infection. Her white count would be elevated."

"You told us to do it though…?" Cameron reminded him.

"Well you shouldn't always do everything I say. Go test her for lymphoma."

"Without a high white blood cell count?" Chase puzzled.

"Yes! Go!"

The ducklings filed out, Cameron looking back at House with concern.

He slumped as soon as his team was out of sight. He felt like throwing up again but he knew nothing would come up, so he just sat and rubbed his leg. God it ached. And it kept ramping up, too. Every time he rubbed it he could feel it pulsing with inflammation and cramping. He felt like yelling, but he couldn't or else Wilson might hear. He lie down on the couch in his office with one hand behind his head and the other holding his leg firmly. As an afterthought, he grabbed the trash can and dragged it by his head. He closed his eyes and wished the pain would stop.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Comment if you guess the case! Also, would you all rather have longer chapters with less suspense, or shorter chapters with more suspense?**

Lisa Cuddy clicked into House's office an hour after he had fallen asleep. She studied House's sleeping form like he was a sculpture. His right hand was tense around his bad leg, and his eyebrows scrunched together. His other hand hung off the couch limply next to the trash can. _He must be nauseous, _she thought. She knew, though, that once the drugs were out of his system completely, he might find he felt better. More clear, maybe.

Just to make sure he was still breathing, she placed a hand on his wrist. She was startled by how fast his pulse was. It wasn't life-threatening, but she had assumed he was asleep.

"House?" she whispered, just in case he _was _asleep. Her employee shifted a little but didn't stir. _He really is asleep. Is his pulse always that fast?_

Cuddy held his wrist in her hand as his pulse quickened even more. The diagnostician arched his back a little off the couch as she watched.

"House…? Are you OK…?" she asked the sleeping man tentatively. The only response she got was a moan. His face scrunched and his right hand squeezed his leg. Cuddy winced at the way he was squeezing. It looked like it hurt, especially on his damaged leg. That was when she decided to wake him. She shook his shoulder gently.

"House? Wake up."

House moaned again, opening his dark-circled eyes a slit.

"Are you OK?" Cuddy asked. House nodded sleepily, squeezing his leg again and wincing.

"Stop doing that. You're hurting yourself more."

"Helps…" House said.

"It can't help. You're gonna give yourself a bruise."

"Probably...already have…" House said, drifting off again. Cuddy sighed. She guessed she should let him sleep. Detox can be taxing on the body, she knew that. She decided she'd check on him in an hour and if he was still asleep she'd wake him up. He retched into the wastebasket, but nothing came up.

"You're feeling nauseous?" Cuddy asked. House nodded slightly.

"Should I prescribe antiemetics?" House shook his head.

"All...in my head...right? No need...for drugs…"

"House, you know that's not what I said."

"Yes it is…'m going back to sleep."

Cuddy sighed and moved the trash can closer in case he needed to throw up. "I'll check on you in an hour," she said, but her colleague was already asleep.

(LINE BREAK)

House was awoken by Chase storming into his office. "Her legs are turning red," he informed. House opened his eyes.

"I was sleeping," he complained.

"Oh. Sorry. I just thought you should know. She also has a fever."

"Well then give her ibuprofen."

"I did. I was just wondering what you thought about the red streaks."

House sighed and propped himself up on his arm, the other hand still holding his leg. "Are you sure she doesn't have any cuts? Any insect bites?"

Chase nodded. "I did a thorough physical."  
"Check her white blood cells again. And run a diabetes-" House was cut off by another wave of nausea, and he retched into the trash can. Chase didn't seem too phased.

"Are you getting sick?" he asked neutrally.  
"No," House answered, "I like to vomit for fun."

"If you're getting sick you should go home," Chase suggested.

"I'm fine. Go retest her white blood cells and run a diabetes test. Did you ask about recent travel?"

"They haven't been anywhere."

"Fine. Go run the tests. I don't want to ask you again, Wombat."

Chase left, but when he looked back at his boss he saw that his face was twisted into a grimace, and he was rubbing his leg like he intended to grind it into the couch. Chase had known House was in pain, but not this much pain. Maybe it was the rain making his leg act up. Either way, he wouldn't ask because he didn't want his head bit off. He headed to the patient's room.

(LINE BREAK)

"I'm not coming in today," House's voice came through the phone the next morning.

"What, why?" Cuddy asked.

"Don't feel good."

"House, if this is because of the Vicodin bet, I'm sure you'll be fine. I know you're nauseous but I can prescribe antiemetics. Take some Tylenol for God's sake." Cuddy knew he hadn't been feeling well yesterday, but he hadn't been feeling so bad that he had needed more than an hour's nap to get back to work.

"You're a doctor! You know what suddenly stopping drugs can do to the body! Now I'm not coming in, got it?"

Cuddy sighed, feeling a little guilty. "Fine. One day. You're coming back tomorrow."

House hung up without saying goodbye. His leg was throbbing like something underneath his skin was trying to escape. He couldn't put any weight on it when he had tried earlier. He'd almost collapsed next to his bed. He sighed and rubbed his leg, reaching instinctively for his pill bottle, groaning when he realized it wasn't at its usual place on his bedside table. This sucked.

He looked over at his closet, remembering the crutches he stored there for emergencies. They were left over from the infarction, and he didn't like to look at them because he didn't like to remember that time. But he needed to get up and eat something. His stomach growled. He sighed and rose from the bed, wincing and using the wall to propel himself to the closet. He took out the crutches, lifting himself up onto him. He made his way slowly to the kitchen and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. He sat at the kitchen table while he waited for the toast. The walk to the kitchen had made the pain worse. He curled down to his leg, tears making their way from the back of his eyes to the front. They ran down his cheeks.

After sitting like that for a few minutes, he was startled by the pop of the toaster. Slowly, he uncurled and took out the toast, not buttering it. He took a small bite and instantly felt sick. He tried to make his way to the bathroom but forgot his crutches. He sunk to the floor before his body could take him there itself. He scrubbed a hand over his long face. His breath hitched and his leg cramped.

"Owwwwww…" he groaned out loud, as if the noise would help. It didn't. He vomited up the toast onto his shirt.

(LINE BREAK)

Wilson went into the case room. "Hey, guys. House isn't coming in today. He's not feeling well."

Chase nodded, remembering seeing his boss retching the previous day.

"We have a case, though," Foreman said.

"I guess you'll just have to deal with it yourself. Sorry. You can call me if you need help but I don't know that I can be of much help."

Foreman sighed. "Fine. Well, I guess we should figure something out. Test for lymphoma was negative."

"Well it could still be something with her lymph nodes," Cameron surmised. "There's edema; maybe they aren't working."

The team nodded in agreement. "We could do a lymphoscintigraphy," Chase suggested. Cameron nodded.

"Alright, good plan," Foreman said. He had already moved into House's role. He filed out behind his colleagues.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson stood at the counter in the cafeteria. "One Reuben and a salad please," he said, smiling at the cafeteria worker. He'd decided to bring House some food. He assumed his friend wasn't eating because of nausea, but he was going to make him eat, just like he used to when they were living together in the months after the infarction. It was his job, his penance for suggesting the doctors take his thigh muscle in the first place. He felt guilt for that every day.

Another thing he felt guilt for was his overprescribing. House was his friend, and he could be extremely persuasive, but he should never have let that cloud his judgement as a physician. He probably should have never even been House's prescribing physician, but that was another story. House would have driven off anyone else who tried to care for him. He drove off Wilson enough as it was.

(LINE BREAK)

Meanwhile, in apartment 22B, House was getting worse. His breath hitched with every inhale, and he was curled up holding his leg. He hadn't been able to get off the floor since he'd tried to get to the bathroom. When he'd tried, he'd had to lower himself to the floor again. He was crying too, something he hated to do. At least no one was here to see it.

Suddenly, despite the constant massaging, his leg went into spasm. He screamed, holding his leg. He just had to ride it out. Just a few minutes...he kept screaming. It was the only thing that seemed to help; that and squeezing his leg as hard as he could. Finally, the spasm stopped and he leaned his cheek against the cool wall. He was crying and he couldn't stop. This had to stop or he might have to kill himself. He racked his brain for something, anything he could do. Suddenly, he had an idea.

He dragged himself to the kitchen to retrieve his crutches. Then, he used those to drag himself to the closet. He dug in it for a moment, then found what he was looking for. A hammer. Its gleaming metal surface looked like relief. He carried it to the kitchen table with some difficult and positioned the head above his hand. He was just about to smash down when he heard the door unlock. Still poised over his hand, he turned to the door. Wilson. Of course. Who else has his house key?

"Look away," he ordered Wilson.

"What?" Wilson barely had time to say it before House smashed the hammer hard down on his hand.

(LINE BREAK)

He yelped. It was better than the searing pain in his leg, though. He felt endorphins rush through him as he put down the hammer and slumped back in his chair.

Wilson sprung into action, dropping the food and rushed to House's side.

"House?! Why did you just do that?! Are you OK?!" he panicked. House didn't answer. He was still entrenched in the high breaking his hand had given him.

"Did you do that...to get Vicodin?" Wilson asked, examining the hand. House winced.

"Not everything is about drugs, Jimmy," House said. The pain in his leg was down to a dull throb. It still hurt, and he knew it would hurt later, but the respite would give him time to think. If Wilson would get out of his face.

"Then what was it about? People don't just smash their hands with hammers for fun!"

"Pain. What everything's about. What it's been about for eight years."

"How does smashing your hand help? Isn't that just more pain?"

"Endorphins."

"What?"

"The endorphins. Acute pain injects endorphins into the system, which overrides the pain."

Wilson sighed in frustration. Leave it to House to smash his hand in order to make his leg stop hurting. "It was _that bad_?"

"Yes."

"You're...insane. I'm taking you to ortho."

"No!" House protested. "Leave it."

"I'm not going to leave your hand broken. Come on."

"I said no. You're not my mom. You don't get to boss me around."

"Yes. But I can tell Cuddy. And she'll have you committed. You know she'll do it."

House sighed. "Fine. But you're fixing it. Don't want records."

It was Wilson's turn to sigh. "Fine."

(LINE BREAK)

He took House to his office and looked at his hand again. "I'm gonna need to set this."

House nodded, not minding another endorphin rush as the pain in his leg was coming back.

"Do you want Advil or something?" Wilson asked. House shook his head.

Wilson shrugged. "Okay. 1...2...3.." he set the bones, and House yelped in pain again.

"Sorry," Wilson apologized. He wrapped the hand in a brace. House held it to his chest as if to protect it.

"Does your leg still hurt?" Wilson asked

"Always," House answered.

"You know what I mean, House."

House sighed. "Yes."

"Can I do anything? Would you want to heat it? Or take a hot bath."

"I can do that stuff myself, just drive me home."

Wilson nodded and helped him to the car. He was thankful House had had the forethought not to break his cane hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to PrincetonNurse for the review! This is the last chapter. I will be writing another detox story, which will be called A Long Week. That one will be about Mayfield. Sorry if it's repetitive, they were just both stories I wanted to write!**

He made it to work the next morning. Just barely. He was sweaty and shaky and just plain miserable. But he had to go to work or Cuddy would know something was up. Detox meant addiction, and he was not addicted. It was just the drugs leaving his system.

"What'd I miss?" House asked theatrically as he entered the case room.

"Well, we did a lymphoscintigraphy. She has lymphedema," Foreman filled him in.

"Well I could have told you that," House sniped.  
"But you didn't," Foreman countered.

"Do a genetic test. It's probably hereditary."

His team still sat there.

"Go!" House yelled. Chase and Foreman left.

"Why are you still here?" House asked Cameron.

"House. You look awful. We're worried about you."

"Well don't be. I'm fine."

"Do you have a fever?"

House felt his own forehead. "Nope! Now bye." Just then his leg cramped and he reached down to rub it.

Cameron looked down at his hand. Her face softened even more. "Is it your leg? Is it hurting more?"

"I'm fine. Go be concerned somewhere else. I have Wilson for that."

"Does he know?"

"He doesn't need to because it doesn't hurt worse."

"Yes it does," Cameron argued. "Chase told me you were throwing up the other day and yesterday you weren't here. I just want to help."

"And I just want you to go away." He also wanted to sit down, but he couldn't. It would be the same as admitting defeat.

"Well I'm not going to until you tell me what's wrong. Foreman's worried you can't do your job. He's taken over this case already."

House sighed. "I'm fine. It's the weather. Is that what you want to hear?"  
"I don't _want _to hear anything. I want you to feel better."

"Well I don't!" House shouted. Cameron flinched.

"I don't feel better and it's not because I'm an addict! It's because I'm in pain!"

"Huh? House I didn't call you an addict."

"Yeah? Well you're the only one."

"What are you talking about?"

House sighed and rubbed his thigh, trying to stop it from spasming. "Nothing. Go test the patient."

"We don't need three people to do a genetic test."

"Just go!" House roared.

Cameron sighed and left, knowing she may never get any semblance of humanity out of her boss.

House collapsed on one of the chairs in his office, rubbing his leg weakly. He held his hand out in front of him. It was shaking like a leaf. Great. Just fantastic. Did Cameron notice? He hoped not. He felt nauseous again and threw up into the trash can. He tossed it aside. He would probably be there all day like this; no point in cleaning up now. He paged Wilson to bring his heating pad. Wilson came almost immediately.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Shitty. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah," Wilson answered, plugging in the pad and handing it to house, who wrapped it around his leg. He grimaced as another cramp started.

"Anything I can do?" Wilson asked.

"Get Cameron off my back."

Wilson jokingly looked at House's back. "I don't see her."

House rolled his eyes. "She's asking about my health again."

"And what do you want me to tell her?"

"I dunno...tell her I'm cured or something."

"She'd notice the limp," Wilson pointed out.

House groaned as his leg cramped tighter. Wilson held out his hand, but his friend wouldn't take it. He felt his damp forehead.

"You're burning up, House."

"I'm fine."

"I'm getting you some ibuprofen."  
"Whatever."

Wilson sighed. "House? Is all this really worth proving Cuddy wrong?"

House moaned again in pain. Wilson handed him the ibuprofen. "Okay...well only a few more days then. But I'm checking up on you."

House nodded weakly. Wilson handed him a glass of ice water. "Drink."

House obliged, staring at Wilson as he did. He hated when he got like this; all mothering. It reminded him of the infarction.

All day, Wilson watched as his friend went through detox. His team came to confirm the diagnosis of hereditary lymphedema, but he shooed them off to the clinic before they could come in and see House like this.

He watched as his friend lay catatonic on the couch. He watched as he writhed and moaned, sweat pouring from every pore in his body. He rubbed his back as he vomited into the trash can. He knew House was dependent on the pills, but he hadn't thought he was addicted. Either way, he couldn't stand to watch his friend like this. He had to do something.

(LINE BREAK)

Wilson knocked on his boss's door. "Cuddy?"

"Come in," she said, signing something.

"I need to talk to you."

"Yeah?" Cuddy put down her pen.

"House is getting worse. He's in his office right now drenched in sweat and shaking."

"And? He's in withdrawal. Like I said he'd be."

"Exactly. You've proved your point. Now will you call off the bet?"

"Well, I could, but House would see that as the same as him losing the bet. Or winning by default, which may be worse."

"Just tell him he was right. That's what he wants to hear."

Cuddy sighed. "I know. But he needs to process this, Wilson. I know you don't like seeing him in pain, but it's three more days. Do you think you can tough it out?"

"Fine. But I'm staying with him. And keeping his team busy. It would be a fatal wound for his self-esteem for them to see this."

"Okay. We've got a deal."

They shook on it, and Wilson went back to House, who seemed to sleeping. Wilson was quiet, putting a blanket around him. Then he realized that his friend wasn't asleep, but rather crying.

"House…? What's wrong?"

House looked up. "Fluids...every orifice...didn't you go to medical school?"

"Are you sure it's not because of the pain?"

"Yes...go back to work."

"I'm not leaving you like this. Can I do anything?"

"Yes...get my pills…"

Wilson was taken aback. "What about your bet with Cuddy?"

"She was right…'m addicted."

Wilson sat heavily in the chair he had pulled up next to the couch. "There are programs we can get you into...Cuddy would give you the time off."

"I said I'm addicted...not that it was a problem."

"How is being addicted to opiates not a problem, House?"

"Pain is a bigger problem. Which would you rather have: the sensation of several knives twisting into your leg 24/7, or an addiction?" House asked bitterly.

"Would you want to try a pain specialist?" Wilson suggested.

"Someone prodding at my leg and judging me? No thanks."

Wilson sighed. "Well, then, I don't know what to do with you. I can't help you if you won't help yourself."

Wilson took out his prescription pad and wrote House a new prescription. Vicodin, 5 mg, every 4 to 6 hours as needed. He dropped it next to House and walked out of the room.

END


End file.
